The tall stout farmwife had taken this one
day at home to bake for the school valentine party tomorrow. She’d volunteered these same cookies every
year since baking them for Will, her oldest son’s kindergarten parties. Even
Clark’s dire condition wasn’t stopping tradition. Four year old Howie was
nibbling on a cookie, crumbs and frosting bits dropping on the floor. Sylvie
chuckled, winking at him. Just up from his nap, Howie wanted Celeste to read
him a book.
“Allow me,” Sylvie said, a huge grin
bringing out both a twinkle and a bulge in her eyes making her look like
Grandma Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.
“Come sit in my lap and we’ll read,” she said, attempting to coax him, Bev
intervening.
“Sylvie, you don’t want to get frosting
on your rabbit fur,” Bev warned.
“Icky sticky fingers,” Elvira said,
wrinkling her nose.
“Yes, you’re right. It wouldn’t hurt
rabbit fur, but this... it’s my newest mink.”
“Can I get anything right?” Bev asked.
“Your mink-it’s different than mine.”
Ginny was about to remind mother that hers
was rabbit but was topped cold when
Sylvie came towards her, ready to apply a strangle hug. “You’re Celeste. I
meant to get over here first thing to give you a welcome kiss. Then I thought
to hold off. She’s at that age...I
told myself. Give her a chance to get to know you. Goodness sakes...you are
a cutie. You remind me of Bonnie. My sister did have quite the kids-your
coloring, it’s from your father. We’re
going to have a ball. You’ll fit right in with my friend’s children. Most are
quite fashionable. It won’t take much with you and ...”
Ginny stood listening- believing the
plans had been changed-She, not Celeste, would be going with this woman, an
idea she found tempting and intriguing. Would Celeste be joining them or going
with Mom?
“She means me,” Celeste mouthed.
“Wait! That’s Celeste,” Ginny stammered.
This wasn’t going to be good. Sylvie was sold on her, not Celeste. Worried, she
knew that Celeste’s hatching would happen but not yet .She was in a terribly
awkward stage; before long Ugly Duckling would hatch and find her mother’s
beauty and gracefulness. Auntie was after the hatched and matured “chick,” the
one who’d be popular with the right girls. Sylvie turned towards Celeste.
. “Oh yes,” she said, through a forced
smile, appraising the eighth grader, a furrow of letdown forming between thick
eyebrows. “My! What have we here? You resemble your mother. Well…Of course. I
didn’t look closely at you earlier. The other girl, she speaks up- makes
herself known. So you’re Celeste?” The sparkle in Sylvie’s eyes waned, waxed,
waned. “Yes. Let me look at you. Hum, you have Shirley’s same curly tangles,
the longish nose, the taper fingers, feint freckles.”
